


Popcorn Boys

by egocentrifuge



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, and the rest of it tonight, because it's arguably my favorite thing, by which i mean alpha/alpha dynamics, i think i originally planned for there to be fucking but you know what?, i wrote most of this two years ago, it ain't all got to be about sex yall, love - eggsy, the moral of the story is that eating is a solid strategy to stabilize your mood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 09:15:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16930518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egocentrifuge/pseuds/egocentrifuge
Summary: "Oh god," Ryan mumbles. His jaw aches where he'd been clenching his teeth and the LA heat feels almost cool against his skin. "I think I uh--I think I might be starting my, my uh, rut." It's not--it shouldn't be time, not yet, but shame and confusion are starting to creep up through the haze of frustration."You think?" Shane's wheezing laugh is still enough to put Ryan on edge, but it's easier to compartmentalize now that he knows what he's dealing with.Still: "Shut up," he snaps, and it's stupidly gratifying to see Shane put his hands up in surrender. Ryan struggles to bring his voice back down, to ask, "Could you, uh, call me an Uber?" like he's a functioning adult and not a hormone-driven teenager."And risk you scaring some poor guy half to death? Nah. I'll give you a ride, buckaroo.""That doesn't seem like a super great idea," Ryan admits. "I--I kind of want to strangle you, dude.""I'm shocked and hurt." Shane absolutely isn't. He extends a hand. "Hand over the keys, Bergara. I'm not risking my conscience on this."





	Popcorn Boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchetypal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/gifts).



Shane told Ryan once, drunk and philosophical, that he'd never been friends with an alpha before. Ryan still wonders where the thought had come from, wishes he'd asked instead of mumbling _what, you think we're friends?_ into his beer and sparking a shoving match they'd both lost when Ryan's Corona had ended up in their laps. The next morning had involved a fruitless search for Shane's jeans, a conspiracy theory involving Amelia Earhart on the back of an alien crab, and Shane leaving in a pair of Ryan's basketball shorts. At least they'd cracked that case a few days later when Ryan had gone to do laundry and found a denim windsock in his dryer. 

It's been a month now, and the jeans are still sitting on Ryan's coffee table. Like hell is he going to be seen handing Shane a pair of pants at work, and besides, how was he supposed to know they were apparently never hanging out again? Not that Ryan's pissed. Just, generally when you start a weekly popcorn-and-beer tradition with someone, you give them some explanation as to why you've backed out three weeks in a row. You know, as a sign of respect.

Ryan might be a little pissed. And the worst fucking part of is that he _knows_ Shane can tell. They sit next to each other for eight hours a day, and Ryan knows he's--expressive. _Aromatic,_ according to some people, people who sit much further away and can still smell the annoyance rolling off of Ryan in waves. And yet--okay, no, the worst part of this entire fucking thing is that Shane knows and is still acting like _nothing is wrong._

It's all combined to make Ryan painfully aware of Shane's every movement, which is why he sees Shane sniff the air before pulling off his headphones from the corner of his eye. Ryan feels himself bristling before Shane even turns to him, and when Shane reaches up to push Ryan's headphones off his ears Ryan narrowly avoids baring his teeth.

"Let's grab some lunch," Shane says, still so casually ignoring every warning sign Ryan is putting up. Ryan glares, but Shane isn't looking at him; he's scanning the room around them instead.

What a cocky sunovabitch. Ignoring the threat in front of him, what a fucking shithead. Ryan's itching to shove at him, stand up and square up, get right in Shane's stupid enormous face--

"Alright," Shane mutters, and Ryan realizes he's growling. "Let's go, buddy, c'mon."

Ryan doesn't snap at Shane's hands when Shane hauls him out of his chair, but it's a near thing. Now that he's on his feet Ryan can see that there are eyes on them. It makes him both immediately angrier and quieter, more willing to deal with Shane shoving Ryan's phone into his pocket before locking both their computers. 

"There we go," Shane says, straightening up and taking Ryan's arm. Ryan jerks it free, but refrains from shoving back like he's burning to. Shane hardly reacts; he's looking elsewhere again.

"Steve, could you tell--"

"Got it."

"Thanks. Ryan, where're you parked today?"

It takes a colossal amount of effort to drag his eyes away from Steve, but once he's focused back on Shane it's hard to remember who he was looking at before. Shane's eyes are cool, level. And as Ryan stares at him, Shane turns his back on Ryan and starts away.

Following him isn't so much a choice as it is an instinct, one that Ryan follows until they're out on the quad and the sun and the open air hit Ryan like a sack of bricks. He stops automatically, breathing deeply, and a few paces ahead of him Shane stops, too.

"Oh god," Ryan mumbles. His jaw aches where he'd been clenching his teeth and the LA heat feels almost cool against his skin. "I think I uh--I think I might be starting my, my uh, rut." It's not--it shouldn't be time, not yet, but shame and confusion are starting to creep up through the haze of frustration. 

"You think?" Shane's wheezing laugh is still enough to put Ryan on edge, but it's easier to compartmentalize now that he knows what he's dealing with.

Still: "Shut up," he snaps, and it's stupidly gratifying to see Shane put his hands up in surrender. Ryan struggles to bring his voice back down, to ask, "Could you, uh, call me an Uber?" like he's a functioning adult and not a hormone-driven teenager.

"And risk you scaring some poor guy half to death? Nah. I'll give you a ride, buckaroo."

"That doesn't seem like a super great idea," Ryan admits. "I--I kind of want to strangle you, dude."

"I'm shocked and hurt." Shane absolutely isn't. He extends a hand. "Hand over the keys, Bergara. I'm not risking my conscience on this."

Ryan still definitely wants to strangle him, but he hands his keys over to Shane anyways. It's not exactly easy to remember where he parked, but before the haze has really lifted he's snatching his keys back from Shane to unlock his apartment door, and great, apparently _now_ is the perfect time for those missed hang-outs to happen.

"Right, popcorn," Shane announces. "You got any beer?"

"I'm going to kill you," Ryan decides. He's simultaneously exhausted and adrenalized, and all he wants to do is tear a pillow in half and then pass out on it. Also, maybe fuck someone. 

That popcorn does smell good, though.

Shane hands him the entire bowl where Ryan's still standing rigidly in the entryway, says _eat_ gently enough that even Ryan's overactive ego can't take it as an order, but he still hesitates long enough that Shane adds, "You'll feel better. You need the calories."

It's a relief to pull a face besides a scowl for once. "It's not a heat," Ryan mutters. Shane raises his eyebrows as he reaches for the popcorn; Ryan hugs the bowl to his chest and shoves a handful into his mouth on autopilot. It makes Shane smirk, but he backs off, and that's all Ryan's stupid lizard brain really cares about.

"It kind of is," Shane says. This time, when he heads for the kitchen Ryan follows him. Now that he's started eating it's hard to stop, and he's glad for the glass of water Shane pours him. "It's the other side of the same thing."

"Which is?"

"Fucking," Shane drawls. "Though, for babies, so maybe _mating_ would be a better word."

Ryan watches Shane refill his already empty glass. Even the unmentioned favor is pissing him off right now. "Says who?" he asks, suspicious.

"Says--Ryan, did you pay attention in Biology? Sex ed?" Shane makes an inscrutable gesture. "Alphas had ruts to determine pack hierarchy, who got to breed the omegas, it's evolution. It's why that shit starts to sync up."

It's only months of detective work that makes Ryan pick up on anything except the word _breed_ in Shane's little lecture. 

"Hold on," he manages. "Sync up?"

Ryan's not an expert judge of character right now, but Shane immediately looks cagey.

"Well," Shane starts, which is already indication enough that Ryan isn't going to like what he says. "You know. With--packmates. You spend enough time together, and--" He makes a hand gesture Ryan can't follow right now, mouth dry from more than just the popcorn. 

Ryan downs half of the second glass in one before he finds his voice, manages a, _"packmates?"_ that's squeaky even with the testosterone coursing through his veins.

'I mean." Shane adjusts his glasses. "It's an outdated idea, of course, as is--really, if you think about it, status in general--"

"Shane," Ryan interrupts. The back of his head is buzzing, radiating out from his skull in way that makes it hard to speak. Still, he manages, "Just say it."

"We're," Shane pauses. Rubs at his mouth. "You know, I did some reading--"

_"Shane."_

"I had my rut two weeks ago. Late--by about two weeks. And now you're…" Shane gestures, eyes barely flicking up Ryan where he's hunched over the popcorn bowl protectively. "...in the same boat."

Ryan crunches a solitary piece of popcorn. It's burnt, he thinks, though it's hard to tell, what with the horrible genetic adrenaline rush of Shane so much as looking at him.

"Pack," Ryan says, eventually. Shane blows out a breath. When he breathes in Ryan can already tell he's about to quote some wikipedia garbage, and the effort it takes to put the popcorn bowl down between them to cut Shane off is a bit more manageable because of it. 

It goes against every knothead instinct Ryan has to watch Shane take a piece delicately, bring it to his mouth. But when Shane chews and swallows Ryan can't deny that he's filled with--satisfaction. Contentment. 

They pass a few minutes like that, warily sharing a bowl of popcorn, Ryan staring daggers into the side of Shane's face as Shane refuses to meet his eye.

"You knew," Ryan accuses at last. "You knew, that's why you, why you didn't come over."

Shane looks at his greasy fingers philosophically, then finally, _finally_ at Ryan. His gaze isn't as level as it had been at the office, jumps around Ryan's furrowed brow, flushed cheeks, tight lips, before finally landing on his eyes.

"Yeah," he admits. It's not an explanation, but to Ryan's overstimulated mind it feels like a confession, and that… that'll do, for now.

He pushes the bowl of popcorn towards Shane again, not without effort, and goes to the fridge to swap his empty glass for a beer. He has to pass Shane on the way, and finds that brings another, entirely new wave of _shovepinfightwin_ with it, but the cool glass of the two bottles he grabs goes a long way towards mitigating the instinct. 

"Movie?" he grunts, already beelining towards the sofa. The jeans are still there, folded but still conspicuously more square-footage of denim than anything Ryan owns, and Ryan takes vindictive pleasure in using them as a coaster. 

The only indication Shane gives that he's noticed is a noisy exhalation as he joins Ryan, taking the other end of the couch with the popcorn bowl wedged between them in tribute. Ryan doesn't remember the name of the movie two seconds after pressing play; misses the first twenty minutes as he clutches his beer and tries to keep his mouth shut.

But eventually--

 _"Breeding?"_ he mumbles, and Shane chokes on a kernel, and the second act of the movie is lost to Ryan's instinct to pat Shane on the back turning into a tussle. 

He ends up half on top of the bowl, the rim digging into his side paling in comparison to Shane's knobbly knees, breathing in the scent of Shane's jeans without beer or laundry detergent getting in the way.

"Pack," Shane sighs, sounding as incredulous as Ryan's sure he'll be once the hormones calm down. Something about the word--resonates, feels right, gives substance to the movie night ritual being resumed. 

Ryan hasn't destroyed any upholstery, or gotten a nap. Doesn't think fucking is in the cards just yet, either. But he still feels better.

It's probably the popcorn.


End file.
